Acid Bubbles (21 page)

If we could stand upon it how was I going to pop it? I didn't need to ask. The music and the aromas were a fading memory. All that remained was the pixie who'd now released me from her grasp, and was fiddling around in a hidden pocket for something. What she produced was very similar to a telescopic car aerial, the extending type made of eight different sections. She proceeded without any theatre to extend this to its full length and it was almost as tall as the pixie…What she did with it next was use it like a pointer at a conference. I now understood where the business suit came in and she asked me a question,

“Would you like to see how bad you've been? And if you're as bad as some people are suggesting you are, you're in trouble in that bubble,” pixie rhymed in a singsong voice.

“What…?”

“You'll see,” pixie said, starting to bring the pointer up into the air and over her shoulder in a giant arc.

Hysadraboppel didn't hesitate in plunging the white board pointer into the bubble. Nothing happened for quite some time, about ten seconds, after which I could hear this very slow hissing sound like a puncture. I put my hand over the hole. I could feel no air rushing out… It was rushing in!

My hand was trapped in a violent vacuum the strength of which gave me the impression my arm would be ripped from its socket. I couldn't escape. It was pulling my fingers longer and longer, and to my horror my body was transforming into some form of flesh elastic. It hurt like crazy. This inward rush of air wasn't going to let me go. I was going to be pulled down like a piece of spaghetti sucked into a hungry Italian's mouth.

I did the only thing possible to relieve the pain. I put my hands together and dived. It was similar to plunging from a ten meter diving board, except for one thing: this was scarier by far!

Wet cigarette smoke… Lips were pressed against mine kissing me with a lot of wet tongue. I was, of course, a spectator to this, like watching a full 3D movie with sensation vision.

I had one hand on this girl's right thigh which was quite naked, no stockings. The other was up underneath the back of her jumper. I could feel the strap of her bra pressing into the palm of my hand. She wasn't objecting to my investigating touch. She was pushing against me with her whole body. This was the language of sex, and we were communicating in this idiom towards who knows. It could be the back of a car, it could be my place, or it could be anywhere. She broke away from me slowly biting my lip as she did so, giggling into my face with more unwanted aroma, this time the distinct smell of too many short drinks.

She was quite lovely. Long hair, slim, very well proportioned, and I think her young age gave her complexion a beautiful freshness despite the damage from alcohol and cigarettes. At a glance you would have guessed she was twenty. On consideration I think she was about sixteen or even fifteen. The girl looked straight past me across the pub booth, and on the other side of the table was an equally lovely girl just as fresh and just as drunk. She he was in the arms of my Nazi twin, the one and only John Smith, and in this video rerun we were both laughing together. We were big mates out on the town, and with his treacherous nature you never knew if you could trust the laughter.

The girls were giggling to each other, making signals that they wanted to go to the ladies for a chat, to talk about whatever girls talk about in the ladies. Were they going back with us? We didn't doubt it. Were they going to fuck us? We didn't doubt that either. We were the lads, out on the town, flashing the cash, and we were smooth-looking bastards at that. What more could a girl want?

The girls squeezed out of the booth past us, having to climb over our laps to get out. There was intimate touching greeted by a lot of giggling as they slipped by on hot legs towards the ladies room. We were not a lot older than the girls in years, but in terms of dispassionate taking advantage we were veterans. This is the feeling I was getting. Cynically take the pleasure, spoil, and forget.

John leaned across the table so we could talk without shouting saying, “They'll be gone ages. I got something to tell you. It's big!”

“Go on then, John. Does it have a profit?”

“Fucking lots, more than you can shake a stick at!” John replied.

So he started to tell me where he got the drugs from. This was quite worrying because he never told anybody who his exclusive connection was. Now he was telling me. Even on the rerun deep down inside my head I sensed I didn't want to be in any deeper. John Smith obviously wanted me in it up to my neck, or he was just a mate trying to cut me in on some totally class money action. I wasn't feeling cut in, more dropped in it!

“Mr Big, if you want to call him that. His real name is Raymond Nice. He runs that large scrap business in the big disused factory at the edge of the city. You know the place on the road out to the north where all the scrap cars are piled up right next the road. You can buy anything for a few bob. Well he fancies himself as a bit of an Al Capone, a big-time gangster, but he's not smart, a bit of an arsehole really. I went to see him the other week to do some business. Normally he's got this big lump of a brother with him. Now his brother Walter works in the scrap yard but he's not the enforcer. He runs a low-level protection racket with some local takeaway restaurants, the odd nightclub, nothing big time, but he fancies himself,” John said.

“I digress. I was there and Raymond sends him out the room then tells me he can't trust his brother. The big dumb arse wants to see more of the action and Raymond can't trust him not to flash the cash about drawing unwanted attention.” John Smith explained how Raymond Nice didn't want his brother to know who “The Man” was.

“This is where it gets really interesting. There's this guy by the name of Chas, a real ugly bruiser, who works in the yard and he's the chief enforcer. The dickhead broke his leg in an accident at the yard, and Raymond wants to go down to Bristol to see the man, get some gear. You know what I'm saying? So he invites me along because he trusts me!” At this John Smith roared with laughter until tears rolled down his face. “Trusts me! Trusts me…the wanker!”

I did not see my lovely girl again, and I wanted to. Unfortunately I missed out on the girl in this rerun, but I'm sure I enjoyed her at the time. I suffered a jump in time. One minute I'm in the pub waiting for my girls return, and the next I'm standing next to a parked car somewhere out in the wilds. It's all very dark and I can make out the shape of John's Rover 3.5 coupe. He's laughing and telling me Raymond Nice has retired from the business of drug overlord. This sudden retirement happened after a scare near Bristol when a drug deal went slightly wrong.

It turned out that the two of them travel down together, Raymond carrying five grand with him, and the caring John Smith as the minder, though John, to my knowledge, never carried firearms, so what he expected John to do if the trouble really kicked off God only knows. They'd done the deal and it had gone smoothly, a regular arrangement. The right amount of stuff for the right amount of genuine non-counterfeit money, all in five pound notes, none of them freshly printed. All that money taken for selling bits and pieces of old cars, a perfect front if you need untraceable cash, the bonus being you don't have to pay scrap value for all the cars. Some of them you can collect free whilst the owners are asleep.

This is where the drug deal went slightly wrong for Raymond Nice. The two of them stopped at a pub to have something to eat, chicken in the basket or some such delight. Now relaxed Raymond decided to have four or five Scotch whisky's, he wasn't a big drinker. John was now responsible for driving, and not too long after they'd left the odour of stale beer and chicken behind Raymond had a nasty turn.

John decided that he should sleep a little bit more soundly and pulled over into a lay-by where the snoring, overfed Raymond suddenly died. I think what he died of you could call asphyxiation, or a more accurate description would be John Smith pressing both hands across his face. The former Mr Big struggled drunkenly against a far superior force. John Smith was very strong. “It was like stamping on an earwig,” he told me.

“One minute the old bastard's doing my head in with the snoring, next he's all quiet and peaceful, lovely result. I know who's “the man” so I can now take over. I'll work some story with that dumb arse brother Walt, and he'll think that he's been crossed by Harry the Pocket or that nauseating sidekick of his, Double-Barrelled Dave. So, with a bit of luck, dumb arse Walter will sort them all out for us. What a fucking result!”

John Smith opens the boot, and the dim interior light illuminates the contents. Before me lies Raymond's body, and his face is very purple especially where it's been resting on the car boot floor. I feel like vomiting. I've gone from drug dealer to accomplice in murder, and this “friend” of mine will kill me without even thinking about it if I don't help him. I was being used and tested to see what I was made of. Stupid, soft, malleable clay, that's what I was made of!

I was rigid with fear staring at the body when the location changed. We were now in another part of the country. It was still dark, and this part of the countryside seemed familiar to me in a way that as a spectator I hadn't yet grasped. Then it came to me. We were below the farm on the edge of the old copse. You can access this through a series of gates connecting the lower fields, especially if you've got keys which I obviously still possessed. How they came to be in my possession, I don't know.

The copse was a long way from the public highway and contained no fishing pond that could tempt people to visit this remote patch of woodland. It was quite unremarkable in every way, a perfect place to hide the body deep beneath leaf mulch and debris of old rotting woodland. We only had one spade between us so we took it in turns, five minutes apiece, to dig a very deep hole to keep Raymond safe from foxes and other animals. It did occur to me that the devious John might decide I was more use to him quiet than as a business associate. I carried on digging what could have become my own grave.

Well it's obvious the unfortunate Mr Nice rests alone because I'm telling you the story. There would be no story if John had murdered me, but he didn't bury me alongside Raymond for his own reasons. He needed backup with his story. Also, he couldn't cope with the sudden expansion of business, and needed an established outlet. I was by all accounts a big wheel and a pretty miserable bastard. The replay had exposed this sad fact, and as his accomplice I was deep in the spider's web!

The job in the copse was done. We were now away from the farm, and I was so tense I could have snapped like a dry twig at the least provocation. John, however, was humming to himself, contentment taking over after dumping the body. However, you couldn't imagine he'd been stressed. Killing somebody was for John like standing on an earwig. This made me shudder cold up my back.

What we were doing next made me shudder more. We were beating some guy in an alleyway with a cricket bat, at least I had a cricket bat, and John was stamping on the poor victim's testicles! I, on the other hand, was beating him around the legs hard enough I'm quite sure to break something. During all this violence John and I were discussing how much money he'd cost us. We informed him of the tactics he would use to recoup his losses, and how if he didn't return the money to us we would keep visiting until he got his life formula correctly aligned with our business plan.

We supply the stuff he sells. The merchandise goes down some more levels to the little guys who deal it out on the streets. He keeps a small margin after which he gives the money due to us. This guy was somebody we trusted. This time he'd let us down and needed a lesson. Other lowlife's need to know he's had this hard, hard lesson! He can be in the game if he pays us back, but it will never be anything but money upfront, and if he doesn't pay us back… This is the darkness I'm involved in along with my Nazi twin who I naïvely believed was the force of evil, and now I can see why we're twins.

I suffer a short series of flashbacks, all of which seem to involve doling it out to somebody who's crossed us in some way that we perceive to be bad. I suppose when you're dealing at this end of the spectrum you can't go to a lawyer and expect to take somebody through the courts. It has to be more immediate, and as I'm watching these short snapshots of my previous history I'm starting to become more and more nauseous to the point where I think I'm going to be sick in my own flashback. How did I get to be like this? What drove me to push my life down such a bleak path?

On one occasion I was sweating, and seemed to be enjoying the workout. I was wearing my steel toe capped brogues and I could feel the amount of effort I was putting into my work convincing people we weren't soft touches. The final nail in my vomit coffin was watching the pure physicality of my nauseating violence. I was getting to the point of vomiting inside my own flashback, but I was watching and not participating so if I vomited where would it land? If I threw up it wasn't going to make the past violent me vomit, so what would happen? Would I throw up all over the Pixie?

Then I was dry vomiting. It was a wretched non-stop deep gut-wrenching effort. Every time it produced a dry burning in the back of my throat, and every time I'd imagine it was the last effort, or my body could take no more. Each time this happened I was wrong. The dry burning continued in my throat, the retching so violent it seemed some inner force was attempting to pull my stomach up through my larynx. It continued for so long that my entire throat and windpipe were on fire.

The only things moist were my eyes, wet with tears produced by the strain of continuous, never-ending body-wracking convulsions. It was going to kill me if I carried on heaving my guts up like this for much longer, I would rupture something inside my body and die. Some time in this haze of bile induced agony I realised I was no longer in the flashback. I was in the realm of the pixie and this was my current fire, the result, what she'd expected. A weak stomach or no stomach at all in fact! Witnessing my hidden past was nauseating and Karmic revenge was being put upon me, I deserved it!

With a final effort I managed to open my tear-filled eyes, and with blurred vision I could see my little business woman pointing her telescopic device at me like an accusatory finger, and there was no wind or water. I was retching as if I was to die, and nothing would allow me to speak a single word to her. This, I felt sure, would be the end. This little Pixie was going to stand there pointing with the extended chrome stick and let me die.

Through my blurred eyes she looked like the Grim Reaper holding out a bony finger of death. Perhaps it was for the best. Through all this agony I remembered Jennifer waiting above in the railway carriage…Things changed.

Moments later I was standing at the bar. She was laughing at some silly thing I'd mentioned moments before. We were both drinking very cool champagne, stunningly refreshing, putting out the flaming agony in my throat. This was a blessed relief. Moments before I thought I was going to die, now I could no longer feel any terrible acid dry ripping at my solar plexus. I was no longer retching with incredible body breaking violence. Now I was standing at the bar on a train with a very beautiful woman, and the music played on, and on, and on till dawn 295 miles away. I stayed with her all night, all the way to a distant mysterious place.